Chapter 4: Academy Rhythms

  Malcolm jerked awake at the sound of the morning gong, his heart pounding. For the third morning in a row since starting his resource management duties, he'd been dreaming of home—the familiar scent of his mother's herb garden, his father's booming laugh from the workshop. The dreams always ended the same way: with him reaching for his parents only to have them dissolve like smoke between his fingers.

  "Crap," he muttered, wiping sleep from his eyes. His roommate's bed was already empty, perfectly made as usual. Tsuji still barely acknowledged Malcolm's existence beyond the occasional disapproving glance at his rumpled bedding or haphazardly folded uniform.

  Malcolm fumbled for his father's pocket watch. Five-twenty. At least he wasn't late this time.

  He dressed quickly in his academy robes, making a half-hearted attempt to tie the belt properly. After three days, he'd learned that being on time for dawn meditation was more important than looking perfect. The appearance-obsessed Kagetsu folks would just have to deal with his slightly askew collar.

  The hallway bustled with students moving in orderly lines toward the meditation hall, their faces composed and alert despite the early hour. Malcolm joined the flow, stifling a yawn. How did they all look so damn awake? It was unnatural.

  "Sinclair-san." Mira appeared beside him, materializing from the crowd with her usual silent efficiency. "Your belt is incorrect again."

  "Good morning to you too, Mira," Malcolm replied, unsuccessfully attempting to suppress another yawn. "Is this going to be on the test? Proper belt-tying technique?" He fidgeted with the loose fabric, his fingers still clumsy with sleep.

  The corner of Mira's mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Presentation reflects discipline," she said, reaching out to adjust his belt with quick, efficient movements. "And discipline reflects potential."

  "Where I come from, results reflect potential," Malcolm countered, but he stood still and allowed the adjustment. His hands dropped to his sides with a dramatic flair that made a passing first-year stare. "No one cares how you look if your potion works."

  "In Kagetsu, the process matters as much as the outcome," Mira replied, finishing with his belt and stepping back to assess her work. "Your belt now properly represents a first-year student of minimal standing."

  "Gee, thanks." Malcolm twisted his hands in an exaggerated bow.

  "It was not a compliment, merely an observation." She fell into step beside him as they approached the meditation hall. "Your supervised soul space session with Master Seiran is scheduled for this evening. Have you been practicing your visualization as instructed?"

  Malcolm nodded, running his fingers through his perpetually disheveled hair. Despite his exhaustion and the crushing schedule, he'd been sneaking moments throughout the day to check on his soul space. The tiny bubble with its mysterious black pool fascinated him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

  "Yeah, I've been practicing. Still no sign of this flame everyone keeps talking about, though." He made a flicking gesture with his fingers, mimicking the fire he'd seen other students produce.

  "The alchemist's flame requires patience," Mira said. "Some students practice for months before their first manifestation."

  "And some are born with it practically blazing, right?" Malcolm had noticed how some first-years already had visible flames during meditation, while others—like himself—showed no external signs whatsoever.

  Mira hesitated, then nodded. "Some individuals have natural aptitude. But diligent practice can overcome most inherent limitations."

  "Most, but not all?" Malcolm leaned closer, hands moving in question.

  "We should hurry," Mira said, neatly sidestepping his question. "Flamecaller Hirayama values punctuality."

  The meditation hall was already filled with students kneeling in perfect concentric circles, their breathing synchronized in that eerie way that still gave Malcolm goosebumps. The air hung heavy with sandalwood incense, a scent Malcolm was beginning to associate with frustration and numb legs. Somewhere behind him, water trickled in a small fountain, the gentle sound somehow making the silence of the students even more pronounced. The polished wooden floor gleamed in the early morning light filtering through paper screens, cool and hard beneath his knees.

  He took his place in the remedial section, knees already protesting at the thought of another hour of painful stillness.

  Flamecaller Hirayama stood at the center, his ancient face serene as the blue flame danced above his palm. "Center yourselves," he intoned, his voice carrying easily despite its softness. "Feel the energy of the universe flowing through you, gathering in your core, rising with your breath."

  Malcolm closed his eyes and tried—really tried—to follow the instructions. He focused on his breathing, imagined energy flowing through mystical channels that Jirou had called "meridians," and attempted to channel this hypothetical energy to his palm as instructed.

  Nothing happened. Again.

  Halfway through the session, with his legs completely numb and his back screaming in protest, Malcolm gave up on the flame and decided to check on his soul space instead. He'd gotten quicker at accessing it, needing only a moment of concentration to visualize the small bubble-like area.

  To his surprise, something had changed. The space itself was still tiny—barely a meter across—but the black pool at the bottom seemed larger than before. Not dramatically so, but definitely bigger, as if it had spread outward slightly.

  Malcolm focused on the pool, curious. What exactly was this thing? Everyone acted like it was some bizarre anomaly, but it had to have a purpose, right? He tentatively reached out in his mind, stopping just short of touching the obsidian-like surface as he remembered Master Seiran's warning.

  The pool responded to his attention, rippling slightly as if disturbed by an unseen breeze. Malcolm felt a strange pull from it, like a subtle gravity exerting itself on his consciousness. Not threatening, exactly, but insistent. Inviting.

  "Sinclair-san!"

  Malcolm's eyes snapped open to find Flamecaller Hirayama standing over him, his weathered face creased with disapproval.

  "Your energy is scattered," the old man said. "You drift from the flame practice into... something else."

  The entire hall had fallen silent, all eyes turned toward Malcolm. Perfect. Another public failure.

  "Sorry, Flamecaller," Malcolm mumbled, his shoulders hunching forward. "I was trying to center myself but got... distracted."

  The old man's eyes narrowed. "See me after the session. We must discuss your approach."

  Great. Just what he needed—another lecture about his inadequate technique. As Hirayama moved away, Malcolm caught Mira watching him from her place in the second-year circle, her expression unreadable.

  The remaining meditation time crawled by with excruciating slowness. When the final gong sounded, Malcolm's relief was tempered by the knowledge that Hirayama was waiting for him.

  As the other students filed out, Malcolm dragged himself to the center of the hall where the flamecaller waited, thin arms folded into his voluminous sleeves. Malcolm's stomach knotted.

  "Flamecaller Hirayama, I apologize for my lack of focus," he began, reciting the words Mira had drilled into him. The formal Kagetsu apology felt stiff on his tongue, nothing like the casual "my bad" he'd have offered back home.

  The old man held up a gnarled hand, cutting him off. "What were you doing when I interrupted you?"

  "I, uh..." Malcolm hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. "I was checking on my soul space, sir."

  To his surprise, Hirayama didn't look angry. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. "The one with the unusual pool feature. Master Seiran mentioned it." He studied Malcolm with piercing eyes. "Your flame cultivation continues to show no progress despite your efforts."

  "No matter what I try, I can't seem to feel anything," Malcolm admitted, spreading his hands in frustration. "Not even a spark."

  Hirayama stroked his wispy beard, the white strands almost translucent in the morning light. "Some students naturally channel energy in different ways. Your soul space—is it becoming easier to access?"

  Malcolm nodded, surprised by the question. "Yes, actually. After using it for resource management, it feels more... responsive."

  "This suggests your energy naturally flows in that direction," Hirayama said. He gestured for Malcolm to sit across from him on one of the meditation cushions. "Perhaps we have been too rigid in our expectations."

  Malcolm sat, grateful for the unexpected reprieve from criticism. "I try to do what you described—imagining energy gathering in my core and rising up. But it feels..." he searched for the right word, hands circling in the air, "artificial. Like I'm just making it up."

  "Because you are," Hirayama said bluntly, a hint of amusement crinkling his ancient eyes. "All visualization begins as imagination until energy responds to intent."

  "But how do I know if I'm doing it right? I can't see or feel anything happening."

  The flamecaller considered him for a moment. "Perhaps we approach this incorrectly. For Kagetsu students, flame cultivation builds upon concepts learned since childhood. You lack this foundation." He leaned forward slightly. "Instead of focusing on what you cannot feel, focus on what you can."

  "I'm not sure I follow." Malcolm's brow furrowed.

  "This pool in your soul space—you can perceive it clearly, yes?"

  Malcolm nodded.

  "Then perhaps that is where your energy naturally flows, rather than to a flame manifestation." Hirayama made a flowing gesture with his hands, his ancient fingers tracing patterns in the air with surprising grace. "Water and fire," he murmured, voice dropping to almost a whisper, "opposing elements since the Third Dynasty teachings, yet both channels for spiritual energy. The old masters knew this, but we sometimes forget."

  Malcolm's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You're saying I might not be able to make a flame because my energy goes to the pool instead?" He leaned forward eagerly, hands tapping his knees in excitement.

  "It is a possibility worth exploring," Hirayama conceded, his lips curving slightly at Malcolm's enthusiasm. "Speak with Master Seiran about this during your session today. In the meantime," he rose smoothly to his feet despite his apparent age, "you are excused from tomorrow's group meditation. Instead, report to Pavilion Five for individual guidance."

  "Thank you, Flamecaller," Malcolm said, bowing with genuine gratitude.

  Hirayama nodded once. "Adaptability is as valuable as tradition, though we do not always acknowledge this aloud." With that cryptic statement, he gestured for Malcolm to leave.

  As Malcolm hurried to his theoretical foundations class, his mind raced with possibilities. Was the pool actually draining energy that should be going to his flame? Or was it somehow an alternative to the flame—a different manifestation of the same principle?

  For the first time since arriving at Enshin, he felt a flicker of hope that he might not be a complete magical failure after all.

  "The five elemental correspondences establish the framework for all alchemical transformations," Professor Liko droned, gesturing to a complex diagram of interconnected circles and lines.

  Malcolm squinted at the overlapping patterns, trying to make sense of the swirling symbols. The diagram looked more like an artistic maze than a scientific chart.

  "Earth grants stability but lacks adaptability. Water provides fluidity but lacks permanence."

  Malcolm's brush hovered uncertainly over his parchment. Should he copy the diagram? Just the words? Both? The student next to him was somehow managing to reproduce the entire complex illustration while simultaneously taking notes.

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  "Fire creates change but lacks restraint. Air enables connection but lacks substance."

  His hand cramped as he frantically scribbled, ink blotting where he paused too long. The unfamiliar brush writing made every character a challenge. At least in Redoak they used practical pens with consistent ink flow.

  "Void offers potential but lacks definition."

  Malcolm's stomach grumbled loudly enough that two students turned to stare. He hadn't adjusted to the meager Kagetsu breakfast portions yet. Back home, his mother would have had eggs, bacon, and fresh bread on the table before dawn.

  "Sinclair-san!" Professor Liko's sharp voice cut through his concentration. "Define the primary transmutation pathway between water and earth elements."

  Malcolm froze, his brush dripping ink onto his parchment. "Uh..." He frantically scanned his notes, finding nothing helpful.

  "As I suspected," Liko said with a disapproving click of her tongue. "The sedimentary transition is covered in chapter three of the elementary text—which you apparently have not read."

  "I've been reading it," Malcolm protested, his face growing hot. "I just haven't gotten to chapter three yet."

  "Then I suggest you prioritize your studies more effectively. The sedimentary pathway is fundamental to all first-year transformation exercises." She turned away dismissively. "Tsuji-san, please educate your countryman."

  Malcolm's roommate straightened, clearly pleased to be called upon. "The sedimentary pathway involves the gradual transference of fluid essence into stable form through systematic reduction of movement potential," he recited, throwing Malcolm a smug look. "The reverse process, erosion conversion, requires catalyst elements not found in standard first-year materials."

  "Precisely," Liko nodded approvingly. "Perhaps you could assist Sinclair-san with his remedial studies, since you clearly understand the material."

  Tsuji's expression made it abundantly clear how he felt about that suggestion. "If Academic Direction requires it, Professor," he said stiffly.

  "Great," Malcolm muttered under his breath. Just what he needed—more time with his judgmental roommate.

  By the time the lecture ended, Malcolm's head throbbed in rhythm with his growling stomach. He massaged his temples, wondering if it was hunger or the cloying scent of the ink that had triggered the headache. Back in Redoak, they used simple graphite pencils with their clean, familiar smell. Here, everything assaulted his senses differently—even the parchment carried an earthy tang with hints of something citrus-like, but not quite—another small reminder he was far from home.

  In the dining hall, he spotted Jirou sitting alone at a corner table, surrounded by books. The boy had proven surprisingly willing to explain Kagetsu concepts, though Malcolm suspected it was more from academic curiosity about Western methods than actual friendship.

  The rich aroma of the fish stew on his tray made Malcolm's mouth water. Say what you would about Kagetsu's rigid traditions, their food was often delicious, if unfamiliar. Today's stew had a sweet-savory balance that reminded him of his mother's cooking, though with spices she would never have used.

  "Mind if I join you?" Malcolm asked, setting down his tray of rice, pickled vegetables, and some kind of fish stew.

  Jirou looked up from his book and nodded. "You appear troubled, Sinclair-san."

  "Just the usual—understanding absolutely nothing in Liko's class," Malcolm sighed, dropping onto the bench. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in unruly tufts. "And now my roommate's been told to tutor me, which is about as appealing as getting teeth pulled."

  "Tsuji-san is academically gifted but..." Jirou searched for a diplomatic phrase, "not known for his patience with slower learners."

  "Slower learners. Great." Malcolm stabbed at his rice. "Back home, I was top of my class in most subjects. Here, I'm the village idiot."

  "Back home, your hands-on style probably got results," Jirou said, adjusting his glasses. "Here, they're more concerned with whether you can explain why something works than if it actually does."

  Malcolm chewed thoughtfully. "That's the thing—all this theory seems designed to make simple things complicated." His hands moved animatedly as he spoke, nearly knocking over his tea. "Take this sedimentary pathway Liko was talking about today. As far as I can tell, it's just describing how water can turn solid with the right processing. We do that all the time in Redoak, we just don't wrap it in fancy terminology."

  "But the precise wording matters," Jirou argued, leaning forward with interest rather than judgment. "Say 'sedimentary transition' and any alchemist knows exactly which process you mean, right down to the temperature range."

  "Maybe," Malcolm conceded. "But I can't help feeling like some of it is just tradition for tradition's sake." He traced circles on the table with his finger, restless energy finding an outlet.

  Jirou looked scandalized. "Tradition preserves accumulated wisdom."

  "Or accumulated habits," Malcolm countered, then sighed. "Sorry, I'm just frustrated. I feel like I'm trying to catch up in a race that started years ago."

  "An apt metaphor," a new voice interjected. Malcolm looked up to see Sorha Lin standing beside their table, her tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. Unlike most Kagetsu students, Sorha's features were distinctly different—her eyes slightly wider, her skin tone warmer, her accent when speaking Common noticeably foreign even to Malcolm's ears.

  "May I join you?" she asked, her directness refreshing after days of Kagetsu formality.

  "Please," Malcolm gestured to the empty seat beside him, nearly upending his soup bowl with his enthusiastic wave. "Sorha, right? You're from..."

  "The Western Kingdom of Ashkari," she supplied, setting down her tray with precise movements. "Another foreign student, though I've had the advantage of three years' preparation before attending Enshin."

  "Three years?" Malcolm whistled, a sound that earned him disapproving glances from nearby tables. "They made me take a boat for three weeks and threw me straight into classes."

  A slight smile touched Sorha's lips. "The diplomatic circumstances of your admission are unusual. Normally, foreign students undergo intensive cultural and theoretical preparation before entering formal studies."

  "Yeah, well, nothing about my situation is normal," Malcolm said, stabbing another piece of fish.

  "So I've heard," Sorha replied, studying him with undisguised interest. "Your soul space anomaly is the subject of considerable speculation among upper-year students."

  "Great. I'm a freak show." He slouched in his seat, then caught himself and straightened up—Mira's constant posture corrections starting to sink in despite his resistance.

  "An aberration," Jirou corrected, as if that were somehow better. "Though potentially an informative one from a theoretical perspective."

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Glad my weirdness is academically interesting."

  "It may be more than that," Sorha said thoughtfully. "Unusual manifestations sometimes indicate specialized potential rather than deficiency."

  Malcolm perked up at that, nearly bouncing in his seat. "That's kind of what Flamecaller Hirayama suggested this morning. He thinks the pool might be where my energy is going instead of to a flame."

  Sorha nodded, unsurprised. "Where I'm from, flame is just one way energy shows itself," Sorha said, stirring her tea. "Ashkari alchemists work with whatever manifestation comes naturally to them."

  "Really?" Malcolm leaned forward eagerly, elbows on the table in a way that would have horrified Mira. "What are the others?"

  "Crystal formations, harmonic resonances, shadow manipulations," Sorha listed, ticking them off on her fingers. "Each requires different cultivation techniques."

  "And none of those are taught here," Jirou added with a hint of disapproval. "Enshin follows the Imperial Standard Methodology established in the Third Dynasty."

  "Which is why it hasn't changed in five hundred years," Sorha murmured, just loudly enough for Malcolm to hear.

  Before he could ask more questions, the bell signaling the end of the meal period rang. Jirou immediately began gathering his books, while Sorha finished her tea with deliberate slowness.

  "We should continue this discussion later," she said to Malcolm. "Perhaps during free period tomorrow? I may have some texts from Ashkari that would interest you."

  "That would be amazing," Malcolm said gratefully. "Though my free periods are pretty limited with my garbage—I mean, resource management duties." He winced at his slip, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

  "I'm familiar with the dumping ground schedule," Sorha replied with a knowing look. "Perhaps I could visit your... workspace... tomorrow afternoon?"

  Malcolm stared at her in surprise. How did she know about his hidden area? Had Elder Mozu told her? Or was she just that observant?

  "Uh, sure," he said finally. "That would be great."

  Sorha nodded once and rose gracefully to her feet. "Until tomorrow, then. Good luck with your afternoon duties, Sinclair-san."

  As she walked away, Malcolm turned to Jirou. "Is she always that... intense?"

  "Sorha Lin maintains unusual connections throughout the Academy," Jirou replied carefully. "She is academically brilliant but politically..." he hesitated, "complex."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning some appreciate her cross-cultural perspective while others find it disruptive to traditional hierarchies." Jirou gathered the last of his books. "Be cautious in what you share with her."

  With that cryptic warning, Jirou hurried off to his next class, leaving Malcolm to ponder what exactly he'd gotten himself into.

  The afternoon sun beat down on Malcolm's neck as he trudged across the Academy grounds toward the western gate. Students moved between classes in orderly groups, their conversations muted. A few glanced his way as he passed—the strange Westerner was still a novelty, even after nearly a week.

  Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief as the massive wooden gate of the dumping ground came into view. For all its smells and chaos, the place had become a sanctuary of sorts—the one place at Enshin where he wasn't constantly reminded of his inadequacies.

  Elder Mozu was nowhere to be seen, which suited Malcolm fine. The old man had taken to leaving him alone once he'd demonstrated he could follow the collection routes without supervision. The physical labor and straightforward tasks were almost meditative compared to the constant mental strain of classes.

  The afternoon at the dumping ground provided a welcome respite from the academic pressure. After completing his official duties, Malcolm made his way to the northeastern section where he'd been gradually establishing his own workspace. Over the past few days, he'd salvaged a folding table, a three-legged stool that he'd repaired with scrap wood, and various implements that seemed useful—scales, containers, simple tools, and a small burner that still worked if you adjusted the valve just right.

  The late afternoon sun filtered through the twisted branches of an old cherry tree that somehow managed to grow among the discarded materials, casting dappled shadows across his makeshift workbench. The air here smelled different from the rest of the dumping ground—less acrid, more earthy. Malcolm had begun to associate the scent with freedom. No judging eyes, no impossible standards, just him and his curiosity.

  Today, he had a practical goal. Malcolm grunted as he dragged a weathered table into position beneath the cherry tree. He tested its wobble, wedged a scrap of wood under the short leg, and stepped back to assess his work. Not bad for trash. He arranged his salvaged tools across the surface—the cracked beaker that still held liquid, measuring spoons with faded markings that he could still read if he squinted. His soul space might work for storage and transport, but for actual experimentation, he needed a real, physical setup where he could spread out and work with his hands.

  As he worked, he mentally kept track of how many items he'd stored in his soul space. By the end of the day, his space felt uncomfortably full—like a closet packed to the point where opening the door risked an avalanche. He'd need to empty it before collecting anything else.

  Malcolm closed his eyes and accessed his soul space, intending to retrieve a few of the items he'd stored there. The small bubble-like area was indeed crowded, with various tools and materials floating in the confined space. As he mentally reached for a dried herb stem he'd saved from the botanical garden's waste, he misjudged the distance in his cramped space.

  The stem brushed against the obsidian surface of the pool, and Malcolm felt a moment of pure panic. Master Seiran's warning echoed in his mind—this pool was unknown, potentially dangerous. Before he could react, the herb stem sank beneath the surface with surprising speed, as if pulled down by an unseen force.

  "No, no, no," Malcolm whispered, mentally reaching for the stem but finding nothing to grasp. His heart raced as he watched it disappear completely. What had he done? Would this damage his already unusual soul space? Would Master Seiran somehow know he'd disobeyed?

  For several long seconds, the pool remained still and dark. Then a single ripple disturbed the surface, followed by another. The ripples grew stronger, concentric circles expanding outward as the pool began to bubble like a miniature cauldron. Malcolm felt warmth spreading throughout his soul space, not uncomfortable but strange—like sunlight filling a previously shadowed room.

  Then, to his amazement, something began to happen.

  The pool's surface bubbled more vigorously, and two distinct things emerged. First, a perfect, glowing orb of green light—about the size of a marble—rose from the center of the pool. It pulsed gently with what looked like concentrated essence of the plant, floating upward above the pool's surface. The orb hovered serenely in the space, as if waiting.

  Second, at the edge of the pool, a small pile of dark, rich-looking soil appeared—apparently the remaining material from the decomposed herb stem, with all the magical or medicinal properties extracted into the floating orb.

  Malcolm stared in astonishment. The dried, withered herb stem was completely gone—utterly decomposed and transformed into these two distinct components. The pool hadn't just affected the stem; it had completely broken it down into its fundamental elements.

  "What the hell?" Malcolm whispered, staring at the phenomenon in awe.

  He mentally reached toward the glowing orb, curious. It responded to his attention, moving closer, but remained distinct—a perfect sphere of pure, vibrant energy. Unlike the stem it had come from, this essence orb seemed alive somehow, pulsing with potential.

  Malcolm cautiously examined the small pile of soil that had been deposited at the edge of the pool. It looked incredibly rich and fertile, nothing like the dried, withered plant material that had gone in. On impulse, he decided to keep it rather than dispose of it—something about its dark richness appealed to him.

  As he examined the two products of the pool's strange process, Malcolm's mind raced with questions. What exactly had happened? The pool had completely broken down the plant material, separated it into what seemed like pure essence and remaining matter. Was this what alchemists tried to achieve with all their complicated equipment and techniques? A perfect extraction through complete decomposition?

  Malcolm's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding with excitement. The pool wasn't just some strange anomaly to be avoided—it was processing material, breaking it down into its most basic components.

  It was accomplishing the alchemical process Enshin taught, but automatically, intuitively, without all the ceremonial steps and rigid methodology.

  "Holy shit," Malcolm breathed, realization dawning. He jumped to his feet, unable to contain his excitement, and punched the air. "It's not a defect—it's a shortcut!"

  He paced around his makeshift workspace, hands gesturing wildly as his thoughts tumbled over each other. Everything they'd told him about his soul space being inadequate was wrong. It wasn't too small—it was just specialized for something completely different. While other students used their spaces for simple storage, his had an actual function: complete decomposition and separation of materials into their purest forms.

  His laughter echoed in the quiet corner of the dumping ground. All those hours of remedial meditation, all those pitying looks from instructors and students alike—and all along, he'd had something potentially revolutionary hidden inside him.

  If his pool could process materials this way, completely breaking them down and extracting their essence directly without all the intermediate steps Enshin insisted were necessary...

  Malcolm jumped to his feet, suddenly desperate to try again with something else. He needed to test if this worked with other materials, needed to understand the limits and possibilities of his strange pool. His hand reached for another discarded herb stem when the deep tone of the evening bell froze him in place. Malcolm glanced around his workspace, making sure everything was properly hidden, then hurried back toward the main Academy buildings.

  As he jogged through the dumping ground, a grin spread across his face. For the first time since arriving at Enshin, he felt like he might actually belong here after all—not as a traditional student, perhaps, but as something different. Something new.

  Something that might just turn the Academy's rigid traditions upside down.